


in the mood for a melody

by bastaerd



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Getting Together, Karaoke, M/M, Mistaken for Being in a Relationship, Misunderstandings, no editing we die like sir john-- of our hurbis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-16
Updated: 2020-10-16
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:14:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27041806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bastaerd/pseuds/bastaerd
Summary: Francis is married, Dundy's a slut, James is hot, Blanky is old-school, Jopson is good, David is Young, and Sir John's getting sued.(Or: gay people misunderstand each other without thinking to just talk about it and karaoke night is on Saturday.)
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames, James Fitzjames & Henry T. D. Le Vesconte, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Thomas Blanky & Captain Francis Crozier
Comments: 11
Kudos: 49





	in the mood for a melody

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Carnus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carnus/gifts).



> so i had the idea for a scene in which crozier and blanky sing a duet of _Unforgettable_ wherein blanky says "unforkettable" instead. that scene just so happens to never fucking appear in this. sorry, phoebe.  
> as always, any british-isms are either inaccurate or absent. also, any legal-profession-related shit in here has been filtered through the sieve of what a 24-year-old lesbian remembers from last semester's civil lit class, so take it with a block of rock salt.  
> (tw for emetophobia-- brief and not on-screen, but implied. to skip it, stop at "Poor thing had not even gotten a chance to close properly..." and resume at "Two hours later, after carpools are coordinated...")

Francis Crozier is in hell. Every day, he sits at a desk in a grey building and laments his life choices up to and including this one. He sits there and types away at his computer as if each keystroke pushes Sisyphus one step further up the mountain, the mountain in question, of course, being the monstrous stack of paperwork in his inbox and the similarly-monstrous stack of it in his outbox. Of course, that is perhaps to be expected when a client such as John Franklin, known more commonly as Sir John for his paternal (or just plain patronizing) demeanor, keeps throwing money at the firm as if that is his job. _If it’s his job,_ thinks Francis, _then it’s no skin off my back._ He just wishes it required less of his time. As it is, he spends nearly every hour of work on this one case, and has turned down other cases as diplomatically as he can, not because they are unwinnable cases or because he has no interest in arguing them, but because, right now and for the foreseeable future, he cannot devote the time to the cases that they deserve. It would be a disservice to those would-be clients to take them on, knowing he would need to overextend himself to represent them. Sir John pays well enough so that the firm’s complete devotion to his case is no financial burden, but that does not mean it sits well with Francis that the man can monopolize them in this way.

It takes its toll on the others, he knows. With Sir John’s case comes the man himself, visiting the firm as if he is a senior partner, sometimes after only a moment’s notice, and often for no reason other than that he had been in the area-- conveniently, downtown is a large area in which to be-- and had decided to see how things were going. He will not listen to Francis when he tells him that they are working on the case diligently, that he has as many people on the job as he can afford. In fact, he seems to take it as some sort of excuse. It is no secret how little he thinks of Francis; it does not help, either, that Francis had used to date Sir John’s niece, who turned down his proposal once with a “No,” and then once more with a “Francis, I’m a lesbian.” Perhaps he thinks it is Francis’ fault that Sophia is gay. He would not put it past him to believe it, certainly. Sir John much prefers James-- Fitzjames, whose name has the cadence of James Bond introducing himself-- for his can-do-sir attitude and his proclivity for flattery.

Francis can see the two of them now, through the extremely modern glass wall that divides James’ office from the rest of the firm. He and Sir John are at his desk, James standing and Sir John sitting, the Keurig going nearby with a steaming cup, no doubt for Sir John. He looks as comfortable as can be in one of the two leather chairs opposite James’ desk.

“Here are the forms you asked for, Mr. Crozier,” says the voice of Thomas Jopson from beside Francis’ desk. He realizes now that he has spent nearly a minute exactly with his chin propped in his hand, glaring daggers at James’ office. Jopson gives him one of those polite smiles of his; this one in particular means _If you spend less time glaring at Mr. Fitzjames and more on your work, Sir John will be out of your hair that much faster._

“Thank you, Jopson,” he replies, sighing and accepting the stack from his assistant. This one is mercifully thinner, some of which ought to go home with Sir John today, in fact. That will help to diminish his pile before it consumes his desk, at least.

“Of course, sir,” says Jopson. “Mr. Crozier. ‘Scuse me.”

“Quite alright.”

Jopson stands there a moment longer, hands folded behind his back in a very tidy way. Francis looks up and finds him staring off into space, that space being Little’s desk. The man sits hunched over his keyboard, his posture wretched, typing away at something as a brown trickle of coffee dries on the side of his white diner mug. Jopson probably knows which cup of the day it is.

“Thomas,” Francis begins, which snaps Jopson out of his trance, “you wouldn’t happen to know any task I could suddenly become busy with when it’s time for Sir John to leave?”

“I’m afraid I don’t.”

“That’s alright, I knew it was a long shot.” Francis sighs again and picks up his pen. “Carry on, Jopson.”

“I’ll warn you when they’re wrapping up.”

With a nod, he thanks Jopson, and Jopson nods back before letting himself out of the office.

Sir John stays for an hour, at least. He cannot possibly be still talking about the case against Barrow, and with a glance from one glass-bordered office to another, Francis confirms that he and James are talking amicably. Chatting. Lawyers do not chat with their clients.

“Might only be you,” Tom-- Tom Blanky, because Francis has developed a need in his old age to surround himself with men named Thomas-- offers over the lip of his coffee mug. “Just because you’re not much one for small talk doesn’t mean everyone else has their foot permanently in their mouth.”

“You’re one to talk,” Francis quips back. “If anyone in this firm can literally put their own foot in their mouth, it’s clearly you.”

“Not my foot, though, is it?”

“You’re wearing it.”

“Sure, but someone else built the damned thing.”

Francis swats at Tom’s hip with a legal pad. “Don’t you have work to do?” he asks him pointedly, and Tom grumbles back good-naturedly as he leaves. The door swings closed and then quickly open again, and darkening his doorstep-- except that he cannot truly darken it, the floorplan being what it is-- is Sir John himself.

“Ah, Francis!” he says, as though Francis is the one who has just wandered in. “I’ve just been talking to James about our case.”

That is another thing Francis despises, that he refers to it as our case. It makes it sound as though he is doing an equal measure of work, on par with everything he has been paying Francis and James and their junior partners and paralegals to do. On second thought, it must have taken years of work to dig the hole he has gotten himself into with John Barrow.

“You know, he has been doing fantastic work,” he continues, standing in front of Francis’ desk in a way that makes him feel compelled to stand, as well; he stifles that urge and stays seated. “You should see what he’s done. I really commend him for the effort he’s put into this, as well as the… the _care_ with which he handles the matter. Really, Francis, you should talk to him sometime and ask him about his profession.”

“A profession we share, as you’re aware,” Francis points out as gently as possible and begrudgingly admitting to himself that maybe Tom has a point with the foot-in-mouth thing. Adds, “I only hope that you feel that you receive the same care from the rest of the firm, not just from James.”

“Yes, well,” says Sir John with much less joy in his eyes, “I would rather receive that care than merely feel I do, wouldn’t I?”

“I only meant-”

“I know, Francis.” Sir John sighs with the whole mass of himself, settles a hand on Francis’ desk perilously close to his phone. “I know that the two of us have been off on the wrong foot for some time,” and there’s the damned foot thing again, “but I had hoped the two of us might come to a detente. If not a detente, then at least a place of common understanding.”

Francis catches himself before he can remind Sir John that this rift between them was opened through no fault of his own, that Sir John was the one who took offense to the fact that Francis and Sophia were dating, and later, turned his discomfort with Sophia’s coming out upon Francis, as if he is somehow at fault for it, as if it is a whim rather than an innate truth-

“You will be attending, won’t you?”

Francis blinks. “Pardon?”

* * *

“Karaoke night.”

James announces it with a flourish, sweeping his jacket off of his shoulders. From the bed, Dundy looks up, one leg stretched out and the other bent enticingly. He props his chin in his hand.

“You’ve said,” he reminds him as James undoes his tie. As for himself, he lays in nothing but his shirt from work, unbuttoned and open as he lounges, even though it will have to be pressed before he next wears it, and his boxer briefs. “And failed to elaborate, but, tell me again, what is it?”

Sighing, James sits on the edge of the bed to untie his shoes and let them rest where they fell-- the one indulgence he allows himself, when it comes to disrobing. The rest, he removes carefully, a task made all the more difficult with how Dundy insists on grabbing onto him any which way, like some large French octopus. Nevermind the fact that James knows more French than he.

“Karaoke night,” James explains, while Dundy clings about his waist with both arms as he tries to shrug his shirt off of his shoulders, “is- oh, come now, Dundy, you know what karaoke is.”

“But karaoke _night_ is a different beast entirely. I’m unfamiliar with the custom.”

“If you’ll let me get my fucking pants off, my darling, I’ll be glad to enlighten you.”

“You can enlighten me any time, chéri,” Dundy says, but lets James go so that he can stand and drop trou. Once he has all his clothes removed and folded to his liking, he comes to bed again and lets Dundy pull him into the cloudy grasp of the covers. Comfortable like this, James rests his chin on Dundy’s shoulder, angled so that he can drop an indulgent kiss to his throat when he pleases.

“Karaoke night,” he begins, “is a solemn festival wherein the firm comes together to sing songs-- to varying degrees of success, of course-- and make merry until we remember we’re not as young as we used to be and go home just before midnight. It involves drinking out of plastic cups, discovering which of our esteemed associates have the range of Whitney Houston, and necking in the restroom.”

It will take some planning. Any sort of event with this many people, all of whom are work colleagues, takes a great deal of finagling and finessing in order to get it up to snuff and not result in some miserable, amateurish office Halloween party, but if there is anyone suited to the task, it is James Fitzjames, attorney at law by day, party-planner by night. A true master of ceremonies. Underneath him, Dundy hums, as if considering.

“Will you require me as your arm candy for the night,” he asks, “or would you mind if I went off for a quick Screw in the Loo?”

“You can go off for anything you please, so long as you never say that again in my presence.”

“He says, as if he’s never been wooed with a Loo Screw.”

“You’ve got a Screw Loose.”

Then Dundy wraps his arms around James’ waist again and reverses their positions. There is screwing involved, as well as something loose.

* * *

Francis arrives to work right on time, which never fails to make him feel as though he has arrived an hour late, for the look it earns him from James all the way from his silly little glassed-in office. Today, though, James is already occupied, speaking with his assistant John-- not Sir John, though if anyone deserves knighthood, it is John Bridgens-- about something or other. John’s grey hair is pulled back into a low ponytail, and his earring is back in his ear, which must mean he does not anticipate a visit from Sir John today. There are only so many times they can try to misdirect Sir John with regards to which ear is the gay ear before he starts catching on to the fact that someone can be gay regardless of which ear they are gay in. Thomas Armitage, for example, is gay in his right ear and deaf in his left.

“Mark your calendar,” says Tom Blanky from right next to Francis. The one trait many, if not all Thomases share is their talent for sneaking up on him no matter the circumstance. So engrossed is Francis with making sure he does not spill his travel mug as he fumbles it in his surprise that he does not notice the poster-sized flyer stuck with magnets to the whiteboard. It reads:

_Set sail with Captain Fitzjames for_

**_CARNIVALE!_ **

_January 9 @ 6PM_

_Karaoke, food, and drinks (non-alcoholic)-- all will be provided,_

_so come hungry & with a song in your heart! _

Underneath the looping script is an image of a ship in icy waters. The poster is a deep purple-or-blue, and so dark as to be nearly black, with silver stars dappling the border. How James had it drawn up and printed in less than a day is beyond Francis, but then again, the man has connections, he supposes. What those connections are is either an hour-long story or a complete and utter mystery.

A sharp elbow jabs at Francis’ ribs, nearly knocking him off balance. “Christ, Tom,” he hisses.

“Oh, blow it out your arse, Francis,” Tom chirps back, undeterred. “If I don’t see you there with your best singing voice, I’ll drag you to the party myself.”

“Fuck’s sake, Tom, it’s karaoke and a sandwich platter. I’ve got better at home-- hell, I should invite you over, then the both of us can escape this mess.”

Tom reaches over and pats Francis’ cheek. “You soppy old fuck,” he tells him, then gives it a firmer swat. “I better see you there or there’ll be hell to pay.”

There is no arguing with Tom, not when it comes to his desire to watch Francis humiliate himself. Really, it is the desire to bring Francis out of his shell, prevent him from being so reticent and maybe get him to make a friend or two. The people in his employ certainly respect him, and he respects them, as well. It would do him well to get to know them in a non-work setting, free from the pressure of a case, and he knows in the back of his mind that it might enrich their opinion of him to see him have a bit of fun. See him as someone who was not all work and no play, as it were, though the phrase made him feel like some greasy corporate type going golfing with his fellow greasy corporate types.

“I’ll make you no promises,” Francis finally says, to which Tom replies, “I knew you’d come around to it,” and fucks off so that Francis can put his lunch in the refrigerator in peace. With that done, he goes to his office, opens an email from Little containing PDFs of the initial discovery, replies, opens an email from Sir John asking for his contact information because he has forgotten it, groans and replies, opens the usual weekly email from a disgruntled ex-clerk trying to extort money out of him, and deletes it without preamble. When he next raises his head, there is James, pushing the door ajar with one hand and knocking with the other, as if Francis would be unable to see him waiting to be let in if he had just stood there. On second thought, he does not know how long James had been standing there doing just that before the silly _tap-tap_ thing, but neither of them can handle being wrong this early in the day.

“Did you see my notice?” James asks.

“I would’ve had to try not to see it,” Francis answers, neglecting to tell him that Tom had had to point it out to him. James looks fortified at this, if nothing else, and straightens his jacket. It is a rich navy blue which compliments his dove grey shirt; in lieu of a tie, he has opted for an amber-colored scarf, which brings out the golden tones in his eyes. Francis feels like vomiting into his wastebasket.

“Right,” James says. “Well. If you’re free that evening, I’d be glad to see you there.”

Francis feels his mouth open and form the words, “I’ll plan to be there,” as if some otherworldly spirit has decided in that moment to pilot his body. James looks as surprised as he feels, and at least in agreeing to go to a party he would rather wait out, he has incurred the satisfaction of seeing James Fitzjames speechless for once in his life. He leans into it and takes a sip of coffee for good measure.

“You look surprised by that,” he says, as if the thought of skipping karaoke night had never occurred to him. James nods to himself and does not say anything more until he asks, “Are you bringing Thomas?” which brings Francis up short.

“He can drive himself, can’t he?” he replies measuredly, with the distinct impression that one or both of them is misunderstanding something, “I think if he’s going with anyone, it’ll be Edward.”

James shakes his head. “No, no, I meant Thomas Blanky,” he clarifies. The name sounds odd on his tongue, as if he had not expected to have to set it straight, which, considering the abundance of Thomases around them, is just a bit perplexing. “Are you bringing Thomas Blanky?”

Francis scoffs out a laugh. “He threatened to be the one taking me if I didn’t agree to go willingly,” he says, recalling his earlier conversation with Tom in front of the Carnivale poster. Now that he thinks about it, James must have been banking on his attendance, considering the special emphasis on non-alcoholic drinks. James pulls a smile that makes the trenches on either side of his face bow, but does not quite reach his eyes.

“That’s great,” he says, then puts two knuckles to his forehead. “We’ll be glad to see you there, Francis.”

He turns and leaves with a grace that would suggest he is merely an actor portraying an attorney. Francis watches him go, catches his gaze from the other side of the wall as the door closes, and goes back to his computer.

* * *

_He’s bringing Thomas._

_Jopson? I didn’t know he was a live-in._

_No, Thomas Blanky._

_Ah_

_So that’s what the two of you were talking about in there?_

_Yes, I asked him if he was bringing Thomas Blanky and he said that Blanky threatened to be the_

_one bringing him along if he didn’t agree to go willingly._

_That’s a shame._

_No it’s not. I’m happy for him, and happy for them._

_They’re obviously very happy._

_With each other._

_Oh, James._

_No._

_Jimbo. Jimothy._

_None of that. Don’t mock me, damn you, sympathize!_

_I’m not the one getting hung up over married men, mon chéri._

Dundy is of no help. James can see him at his desk, leaning back with his feet crossed at the ankles; their eyes meet, and he gives a smooth wink that makes James want to run across the floor and throttle him. Perhaps the most egregious sin is that this hardly constitutes the kind of misdemeanor worth fucking about. Not that they fuck about their problems much, because there are very few between the two of them to fuck about in the first place. It is mostly stress relief, and Dundy has joked on more than one occasion that James holds all his tension in his penis. James fights the urge to slam his head against his desk, knowing it would be in full view of all of his coworkers. Decides to immerse himself in the veritable minefield that is discovery, instead.

After he has sent off several emails to several very important people, including three discrete Rosses, two of whom are named James, James-- Fitzjames, or James Prime-- realizes that his thermos of coffee needs refilling, and that the Keurig in the corner will not do. He needs a large quantity of coffee, made lovingly and not tasting of water, and Thomas-- Jopson, of their surplus of Thomases-- is known for making a pot that can stand a spoon straight up and not taste like liquid death. James heads to the break room, which is not exactly a break room, but even less so is it a kitchen. It has a refrigerator, a sink, a microwave, some counterspace, and, most importantly, a coffee maker. In front of that coffee maker stands a Thomas.

“Hello, Thomas,” says James; Thomas Blanky inclines his head in his direction, sipping from a steaming cup. The pot is about a mug short of full.

“Just caught the first cup after Jopson made his batch,” Thomas offers, as if having read James’ mind. He has that uncanny ability to tell just what someone is thinking by looking at them.

“Ah.” James nods his thanks, taking a mug from the cupboard and filling it. He takes a sip, refraining from adding sugar until he can do so discreetly. Thomas, on the other hand, goes through his like It is an Olympic sport, downing whatever remained like a shot. As he does so, James catches the glint of something metal on his ring finger. Married, not just engaged. He hopes Thomas really cannot read minds as he slips away back to his office.

That evening, on his way home, he stops at the boutique bakery on the corner conveniently just across from the firm, where he purchases a box of a dozen strawberries dipped in white chocolate. The baker gives him an odd look, or, rather, a look James takes to be odd out of his own self-consciousness about his loot.

“What’s the occasion?” the baker, also named John, asks.

“Epiphany,” James answers, taking his fruity plunder and leaving.

When he arrives back at home, he finds no sign of Dundy but a note left on the dining table. He can surmise what it says before he has even picked it up, given the apartment’s resounding Dundlessness, but he reads it anyway, out of curiosity.

_A-fucking I’ve gone. Walter from accounting. Will be home late,_

_but you’ll wake up next to me in the morning-- shoot you a text_

_should I need rescuing. xoxo_

Underneath the message sits Dundy’s signature in his looping cursive. The bastard has even given the thing a spritz of cologne, as if leaving James something to remember him by. James remembers the hell out of him as he sits down at the table and proceeds to eat six of the twelve chocolate-dipped strawberries. The rest he leaves out; let them go soggy, for all he cares.

True to his word, Dundy appears miraculously beside James in the morning. James finds his own arm flung over Dundy’s waist, and adjusts its position so that he can regain some feeling below his elbow. The movement wakes Dundy, who blinks groggily, then throws a hand over his eyes as if the sunlight has blinded him. It is not even all that sunny yet.

“The alarm hasn’t even gone off,” he whines, pushing his mouth against the crook of James’ neck. “Come on, old boy, let me get my forty winks in. I’m only at thirty-nine.”

“You had your fortieth. Across the office yesterday,” James grumbles back. He kisses Dundy’s cheek and admits to himself that he is not quite ready to face the world yet today, either. “How was he?”

“Mm.” Dundy hums and scrubs at his hairline, stylishly mussing his fringe. “Fair. Not the best I’ve had, but it’s been a hot minute since I’ve been with a man with a mustache.”

“How’d you find it?”

“Tickled.”

James runs his thumb across Dundy’s upper lip, where he is just coming in with stubble. “I left you strawberries,” he tells him.

“Saw those,” Dundy replies. “What was the occasion?”

The same question John-the-baker had asked; James heaves a sigh. “I’d thought we could feed them to each other in bed,” he says. “Like a couple of emperors. Terribly indulgent.”

Dundy makes a sound of consideration. “We still could,” he assures him. His hand has found James’ hip, where he kneads small circles with the heel of his thumb. It feels heavenly, especially after yesterday. “I put them in the fridge. We could have three apiece, or you could have all six.”

“Or _you_ could have all six, seeing as you haven’t had any.”

“Well, I wouldn’t want to be presumptuous.”

“Let’s leave them for tonight,” James sighs. “All this talk about men with mustaches has me in the mood for some rugburn.”

* * *

There is something off about the way James and Le Vesconte show up to work. For one, Le Vesconte has not shaved, and the stubbled growth comes in black and grey, reminding Francis of the time he came in one morning just over a year ago and found Jopson in the break room, a blanket around his shoulders as he brushed his teeth in the sink. Sexiled by his roommate, he had said, but in more polite language. He has since found new lodgings. The second tell is that James sweeps in like a high school drama teacher. His hair is pulled back in a ponytail which makes him look utterly dashing, and his scarf-- a rich teal today, to pair with the nondescript brown tweed of his suit-- flutters like a butterfly’s wings as he walks. He seems untouched by the atmosphere of the floor, existing on his own personal plane of reality.

He looks like he has just been fucked. Probably just an hour before arriving here, even, if Le Vesconte's unshaven face is any indication. And it is not a bad sight. James wears the freshly-fucked look as well as he wears anything else, and that expression of the cat who got the cream would be even better if not for whose cream he got. Francis does his utmost to pay it no mind, to stop imagining that look on James’ face in a different context.

“Ah, Jopson,” he greets his assistant as he comes into his office. He has just finished listing every non-James person in the firm, beginning with Sir John, just for the hell of it. The man may as well be a fixture of the office, anyway, for all the time he spends here.

“Morning, Mr. Crozier,” Jopson says with another one of his smiles. This one says _Have you considered getting a hobby that doesn’t involve thinking about James? I hear John (Irving) is very into watercolors._ He hands Francis a stack of papers, still warm and freshly-printed, as well as a cup of coffee, black and fathomless. “Just faxed a moment ago, from Barrow’s attorneys.”

“Thank you, Jopson,” Francis replies, taking a sip of his coffee and thumbing past the cover page. It is a request for discovery which he really ought to take to James, even though he would rather roll it into a tube and shove it up his own-

“Mr. Fitzjames says you’ll be at the Carnivale,” says Jopson, making Francis jolt. The look he gives him must spur him into elaborating. “Well, actually John-- Bridgens-- told me that Mr. Fitzjames mentioned you planned to be there.”

Honestly, the thought of James remarking upon Francis’ intended attendance, in particular, is puzzling. Sure, the two of them are much better friends than they had been when James had just started out at the firm, and that is to say nothing of whatever feelings Francis has boiling for him, but certainly none of that merits special focus paid to him. “Hmm,” Francis hums, for lack of anything better to say.

A tap on the glass has them both turning to the door; there is Little, back straight and eyes dark-ringed. Jopson excuses himself quickly so that Little may be granted entrance, and their hips brush as they pass.

“Ah, Edward,” Francis says, letting in Little, who comes up to his desk.

“Hornby called in just a minute ago. He’s quit.”

All things considered, the mess with Hornby blows over considerably quickly. They encounter a few hiccups, mostly due to the fact that few at the firm remember who he is well enough to say for certain what he does, but after some scrounging around in their records, they figure out his department and job, and Francis sets Little off to clear his computer of anything sensitive, and also to coordinate a time at which Hornby can come and clear his desk. It takes about an hour of anyone’s life, except for Little, who still has the computer to deal with, but, like an elderly dog, he just seems grateful for the change of scenery as he sits in a different corner of the office than usual. They also find a small stash of weed, which Francis tells Tom to dispose of in whatever way he sees fit, even if that means pawning it off on one of Hornby’s friends, if such an animal exists.

As this is all going on, Walter comes out of the elevator down the hall and through the door. His actual first name is James, but he has magnanimously volunteered to go by his middle name to minimize confusion, a position no other double-namer in the firm has agreed to take. Normally, Francis pays him very little mind, but today, something about Walter gives him pause. From his impeccable mustache to his well-shined shoes, there is nothing amiss about him, except for the air about him. It is similar to James’ today, that confident buoyancy, and it is a moment, as he watches Walter waltz to his desk next to Le Vesconte and give him a brief, but significant glace that Francis realizes that he, too, has been fucked. Longer ago than James, to be certain, but definitely within the past night. Judging by the smile and wag of his eyebrows that Le Vesconte gives him, it is apparent who was the other party to that. The prosecution, as it were.

Le Vesconte, with whom James arrives to work every morning and leaves every evening. Le Vesconte, who James calls _my darling_ and _my love_ and other endearments. Le Vesconte, who is, without a doubt, James’ boyfriend. But it is too early to jump to conclusions, Francis reminds himself. After all, he prides himself on his patience when it comes to thinking things through, and it is not as if people never have that sort of arrangement with their partner that allows them to have sexual encounters with others without damaging their relationship. If anyone has such a relationship, James and Le Vesconte certainly seem the type— modern, stylish, unburdened by societal norms and at the same time effortlessly fashionable in their behaviors. James does not seem bothered by it, at any rate, and it is impossible not to realize what Le Vesconte has been up to. Francis catches him mouth something to Walter, who gives an answering smirk, his cheeks going just pink enough to notice. So, no, Francis resolves to gather more information before jumping to any conclusions.

What he does in the meantime, though, is complain to Tom in the breakroom.

“His boyfriend is fucking other men,” he grumbles into a fresh cup of Jopson’s Original with no cream and no sugar. It makes the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. Beside him, Tom hums wisely as he sips from his own travel canteen.

“And how’d you come across this information, Francis?” he asks.

“Saw the boyfriend walk in all satisfied with himself,” Francis replies. They are careful not to name names. “Then J-W arrived with the look of someone who’s been well-railed the night before.”

“Trouble in paradise,” Tom says. “You wouldn’t know from looking at the two of them. F-J would smell it from a mile away, if his boyfriend was cheating on him.”

“I agree, but we can’t assume he doesn’t know just because he doesn’t seem like he does. That man could be bleeding out and he’d cover it up for the sake of keeping up appearances.”

“Sure, sure, but this is far from a bullet hole, isn’t it,” Tom counters, tipping his canteen in Francis’ direction. “He could be pettish. He’s not. Looks like he had a lovely wake-up call, come to think of it.”

Francis looks over his shoulder, watching through the doorway as James strides to the desk of Graham Gore and hands off some printed sheets. He lingers to talk, his hip cocked and one leg crossed elegantly over the other, the picture of casual poise. Nothing about him says unhappy boyfriend, or even unhappy boyfriend doing his damnedest to keep himself together. Still, Francis cannot help the feeling of unease in the back of his mind, which he has found to be a trustworthy thing. There is something he is missing, some piece of the puzzle that has not yet fit into place.

Le Vesconte claps Walter on the shoulder; James catches his eye and raises a brow, his conversation with Gore never faltering.

* * *

With Graham successfully roped into helping with the decorations for Saturday’s Carnivale, along with George Hodgson, so completes the first leg of planning. When James had made brief mention of the party to Sir John the other day, he had immediately given his unsolicited advice regarding the catering for the evening, and, while James most certainly did not ask for his help, Sir John did leave him with a coupon code to use for events. Since he has opted to finance the merriment with his own pocketbook, 20% off does sound enticing, and they were perfectly fine with the relatively short notice. Suspiciously fine, one might say, but James has never been one in the habit of looking gift horses in the mouth. He much prefers to ride them into the sunset.

On the Francis front, things are not looking so peachy. The fact that he plans on showing up at the karaoke night is nothing short of a miracle, and James has done his damnedest to facilitate Francis’ attendance, but then there appears the issue of seeing Francis out of work clothes-- probably-- and singing-- maybe? James holds onto a shred of hope-- and having fun-- because if he does not have fun, James will literally die on the spot-- which is not so much an issue as it is an enormous inconvenience for a man trying to get over a crush. Francis is married, for god’s sake. And to Thomas Blanky, a man with whom James does not always manage to see eye-to-eye, but who is no doubt the only match for a man such as Francis. How long have they been married? It could not have been before James had started at the firm, because he remembers vividly the week Francis had split with his then-girlfriend Sophia. That is to say, he remembers from the notable lack of Francis, and from the gossip that Francis had asked her to marry him for the second time and that that was what had done it.

James recalls seeing her at a charity function of Sir John’s. She was smiling brightly, and went nearly the whole time with her arm linked with another woman’s.

So, it had to have been sometime in the past three years or so that Francis and Thomas Blanky tied the knot. They must want to keep it quiet around here, which explains why they have both kept their last names, as well as why Francis does not appear to wear a ring, but does not explain why Thomas Blanky does. It also does not explain their affection around the office; they keep it toned down, like any married couple might, but it is not invisible or non-negligible. James asks himself why he is spending so much time analyzing Francis’ and Thomas Blanky’s behavior, comes up with no suitable answer, and immerses himself in his work, only coming up for air for coffee and restroom breaks. The day creeps by this way.

He and Dundy catch the elevator down together after work, as is customary. Dundy knocks James’ hip with his own, and James lets his head fall against Dundy’s shoulder.

“Ah,” he feels Dundy say. “One of those days, then?”

“One of those days,” James agrees, letting his eyes close for a brief moment, exhausted by nothing more than his own thoughts. Dundy puts his arm around James’ back, squeezes his arm, and drops a kiss to the top of his head. In gratitude, James lets him pick the music for the drive home.

“Have you ever thought about getting married, darling?” James asks in the elevator up to their floor.

It takes a moment for Dundy to respond, which is usually the case when he is trying to put his answer in a way James will appreciate. “Not seriously,” he replies. “What, have you found a sudden appeal in me now that you know Crozier’s taken?”

“I’ve always found an appeal in you,” James says. “From the moment we met, I thought you were a handsome man.”

“And now I’m only alright.”

James swats him on the arm as the elevator dings and the doors slide open. Dundy extends an arm so that James may exit first, and then follows him to their apartment.

“Care to see what it’d be like?” he asks him as they reach the door. “Over the threshold, you know, like a bride,” and James lets him indulge him.

For as much as he loves the man, and he truly does, James cannot imagine being married to him, or him being married to James. They are intrinsic pieces of each other’s souls, but they are not husbands for each other. Which is fine, because neither of them had gone into this arrangement of theirs expecting it to turn out that way. Sometimes it is just nice to lay in bed together, feeding each other chocolate-covered strawberries to put James’ mind off of married men.

The next day, James works from home. Rather, he wakes up with Dundy’s head pillowed on his chest, Dundy wakes shortly after, yawns, “You should work from home today,” James kisses his head and says, “Just the two of us, then?” and Dundy says, “Nope. I’m going in.” Then he sits up, presses a kiss soundly to James’ sternum, and gets out of bed. James lobs a pillow at him as he goes, but due to his angle, it falls just short, and Dundy pitches it back to him.

“Dropped this.”

“Oh, shove it up your arse.”

The longer he remains in bed, watching Dundy putter about in his underwear-- Dundy’s Undies, he calls them, or Dunderwear-- the more appealing the idea becomes. There is not much he can do at work that he cannot also do here, if he has Henry (Collins) cover the record-keeping. The more limited scope of what he can access is balanced out by how much more he will get done when he does not have to see Francis on the other side of the floor every time he looks up from his computer. As Dundy showers, James throws on a pair of pajama bottoms and an old shirt which has faded over the years to a delicate rose color and hangs more like a camisole. He makes breakfast for the two of them while the pour-over drips, and when Dundy emerges pink and warm from the bathroom, they eat on the bed, pretending they have made an exception this time even though just last night they polished off the box of strawberries.

* * *

James is not in today. Le Vesconte arrives on his own, clean-shaven, and with none of yesterday’s well-would-you-look-at-me about him. Francis pays him as little mind as he can, and tries to ignore the feeling of the missing piece finally clicking into place. His vindication should not come at James’ expense. _You’re better than that, Francis,_ says Tom’s voice in his head, and he heeds his imaginary advice.

“Ah, Jopson,” he greets his assistant, waving him on in. Jopson enters, tucking his hair into place from where it had sprung free of its meticulously-gelled state, and hands Francis the results of his faxed reply to Barrow’s attorneys’ fax from yesterday. From the relative thinness of the response, it is about as unhelpful as Francis had anticipated.

“Sorry, Mr. Crozier,” says Jopson, sounding genuinely contrite.

Francis sighs. “Not your fault, Jopson,” he replies. “It’s those old bastards padding the goals with money, whatever they can’t defend they just pay off like it’s nothing.”

Sometimes it irks him that Sir John has chosen this firm, in particular, to represent him. Either he recently watched _The Rainmaker_ and got it into his head that casting his lot in with the underdog is a surefire path to victory, or, more likely, he knows he has a big losing case in his lap and decided that he may as well drop it into Francis’, just to spite him for turning his niece gay, which he most certainly has not. And on that note, he seems about as enthused to have a gay niece as he was at the prospect of having a niece married to Francis Crozier, so perhaps John Franklin is just happiest with all things against him.

“Have James handle Barrow and his entourage,” Francis tells Jopson, before cursing under his breath. “Of course, fucking hell, he’s-”

“Working from home,” Jopson supplies helpfully. “Not in today. Would you like me to leave these on his desk? He won’t get to them until Monday morning.”

“Unless he decides to check his office tomorrow during the party. No, Jopson, that’s alright. Give them to Edward, let him have a stab at it. He writes a mean email.”

“He does, Mr. Crozier.”

“There we go.” Francis waves a hand. “Get yourself some coffee, Jopson, god knows you treat everyone else in the office to it.”

Jopson disappears out the door, which is to say that he disappears out one side and appears on the other side, because the door is made of glass, rendering Francis’ office less of an office and more of a Cone of Silence through which one can enter and exit. Francis watches him walk over to Little’s desk; his lips move, and Little’s head snaps up as if shot with a rubber band. For a moment, he feels badly about using Jopson as his messenger, and it is not as though Little goes about shirking his work on the regular, but having Jopson tell him to do it really lights a fire under his ass.

With James out today, Francis is doubly encumbered with work. Jopson had said that he was working from home, but nobody suddenly decides to work from home unless they are really looking for a break from the stress of work. Or, Francis notes, James had sent Le Vesconte off to work and stayed home, himself, so as not to have to see his face all day and then all evening. Perhaps he is aware that Le Vesconte slept with Walter, and this is his way to collect himself before the inevitable fallout. The thought of him all holed up in an apartment he shares with the man who broke, is currently breaking, his heart, nursing his feelings and trying to figure out where to go from here makes Francis’ chest ache. He has never been cheated on, but he does know the feeling of a decaying relationship, of the slow decline and jarring stop. Maybe he would have wished it upon James when he first met him, but not now. He has not actively hated him for years now, has tolerated him for three, and has even enjoyed him for two. That brings him to where he is now, rationalizing his way around calling this what it is: a crush. A hopeless one, too.

What makes it so hopeless is not so much that James is James, though that does factor heavily into it, but that Francis is Francis. Old, grumpy, recovering alcoholic Francis. He cannot think of a single person who deserves that foisted upon them. More than that, the thought that someone might enter into a relationship with him, only for him to slip up somehow and for them to see him at his worst and discover that they are in over their head? The humiliation alone might just kill him. After Sophia, he has come to accept that he is no longer cut out for a relationship, much less a long-term, ‘til-death-do-us-part kind.

Since his distance makes him objective, he thinks it reasonable to let Le Vesconte’s sleeping around register on his radar. He does not actively go looking for evidence of his infidelity, but nor does he close his eyes and ears to it. Around noon, he spies Le Vesconte at the desk of John, from accounting, not to be confused with John, James’ assistant, or John, Sir, or John Morfin, or any of the others. This particular John is Irving. James hired him two years ago and then promptly gave him to Francis. He is a round-faced fellow with nervous eyebrows and a gold crucifix necklace. According to James, he had gone to seminary for a year, ran into some sort of personal crisis of something other than faith, and left for law school. The rest is history, and is currently being hit on by Le Vesconte; Francis can tell from the angle of the man’s hip, how he plucks a pen from John’s desk and gives it a few absentminded twirls before putting it back where he had found it. The only thing more blatant would be if he had tucked it into John’s breast pocket and then made himself at home on his lap.

The idea that Le Vesconte is using James’ day at home as an excuse to flirt shamelessly with his coworkers sits poorly with Francis, and when he runs into him in the not-a-break-room, he decides that it is the perfect opportunity to demand answers from him for James’ sake. Though he had not intended on cornering him, and Le Vesconte is not a man who can so easily be cornered, that is what he effectively does, opening the door of the refrigerator and rooting around for the extra carton of cream despite the fact that he takes his coffee black. Le Vesconte steps to the side to grant Francis space.

“Mind if I steal that for a moment?” he asks, indicating the carton as he empties three packets of sugar into his coffee. “After you, of course.”

Francis grunts his assent, pours barely a splash into his cup, and sets it down on the counter halfway to Le Vesconte’s cup. If he picks up on Francis’ unfriendliness, he says nothing about it other than “That’s fantastic, thank you,” and then gets to work on the delicate task of pouring a thin stream of cream into his cup and stirring it so that it mixes with the sugar. Transfixed by this chemistry, Francis momentarily forgets what he had meant to set straight, until he remembers.

“Are you playing at something?” he asks, because he decides, for James’ sake, that he ought to give Le Vesconte the benefit of the doubt before he starts slinging accusations about his fidelity. To his credit, Le Vesconte has the sense to blink, though he continues stirring cream into his cup of sugar.

“What would I be playing at?” he asks. “I’m sorry, Francis, I can’t think of what you might be talking about. Could you give me a clue?”

“James.”

The stream stops. Le Vesconte purses his lips and sets the carton down on the counter. His spoon clinks against the lip of his mug as he abandons his stirring. _Ah,_ thinks Francis. _He knows what he’s done._

“Now, I don’t know what kind of relationship the two of you have,” Francis goes on, “or what sort of agreement you have with each other. And perhaps I’m entirely off-base-- but I don’t think I am.”

He takes more satisfaction than he allows himself to acknowledge at the sight of Le Vesconte’s face, devoid of any swaggering confidence, his mouth closed and smirkless. There is no trace of humor about him.

“Mend what you’ve broken,” Francis says at last, “or James will leave you, and you’ll deserve it.”

The cream goes lukewarm on the counter until Jopson finds it.

* * *

_Crozier ripped me a new one just now._

_Oh? Getting into the top-shelf biscuits again?_

  1. _It’s his own fault he puts them where he can’t even reach them later._
  2. _Something about mending what I’ve broken, or else you’ll leave me._



_Any clue what that was about?_

_If I didn’t know any better, I’d guess it was about the case. Funny he would think I’d leave you_

_over some litigation, though._

_Right._

_Look, I think he thinks I’ve been cheating on you._

_He thinks you’ve been cheating on me._

_Yeah. Really tore into me, too._

_You ought to talk to him about it._

_It’s hardly my fault he thinks that what you’re doing is cheating on_

_me._

_Maybe this is one of those instances where you just had to have been there._

_I really think you could talk to him about it, though, get things sorted. He does have the power_

_to kick me out of the firm, you know._

_I won’t let that happen to you, my dear._

_Tomorrow, then. At Carnivale. It should be easy to find a quiet corner and set the record straight._

_Fantastic. By the by, how do those decorations look?_

_Haven’t gotten here yet. I contacted E &C, they said there was a hiccup in shipping but we should _

_expect them just in time for the party tomorrow._

James takes one more look at the tab containing his email, as if his correspondence with Entertain & Celebrate Decoration and Party Rental might have sprouted a new reply when his back was turned. To his dismay, it has not. The tracking number they have given him is one digit short, according to the website, and they have not gotten back to him with the correct one. Though he supposes he could go through each possible number or letter it could be until he finds the right one, he also refuses to go through that kind of effort for some fucking streamers. When he next checks his phone, he finds two messages, both from John (Bridgens); the first one alerts him to the fact that there has been no luck yet with Barrow’s attorneys, but that Edward Little is giving a crack at it, and the second asks if attendees at Carnivale may bring a plus one. Apparently his husband is dying to go.

Of course he is welcome, James replies, but all dates will be expected to sing for their supper. He also thanks him for the heads-up about Barrow, though he stifles his frustration.

Dundy arrives home late. James opens the door for him, prepared to give him the whole mother hen act where he chastises him for not leaving a note or texting, but finds himself with a face full of flowers before he can get a word out.

“Well?” Dundy asks through a grin. “What say you, James, will you take me back?”

James gives the bouquet a delicate sniff while he pretends to think. “Where did you get these, Dundy? Our garden?”

“Only the finest the supermarket offered.”

“Well, then, I suppose I have to.”

He steps aside so that Dundy may enter, and goes to find a vase for the flowers while Dundy changes into something more comfortable. “How was it, working from home?” Dundy calls from the bedroom.

“Comfortable,” James calls back. “I got some things done, at least, which is more than most people can say for themselves when they work from home.”

Dundy emerges dressed similarly to James, in flannel sleep pants and an old shirt, though he has thrown a second, older shirt on over it. His hair is wild from having changed his clothes, and as they reconvene, James smooths it away from his forehead. He cannot imagine a life without Dundy there, without his freely-given affection and easy friendship, but he also cannot imagine it as anything other than that-- friendship. That their friendship happens to look, on the surface, a lot like something reserved for couples, then James thinks it is a damn shame that not everyone has a Dundy friend in their lives.

Both of them are tired enough that they would rather order dinner than cook it themselves. Being that it is a Friday night, they order from a Portuguese restaurant of which James is particularly fond and open a bottle of wine.

“Pick up drinks for me tomorrow, will you?” James asks, suddenly remembering the rest of the party he has planned for tomorrow evening. “I won’t make you come early to help decorate, I’ve already enlisted Graham and George’s help for that.”

“Graham and George, you say?” Dundy replies, fork poised like a laser pointer. “I think I just might come and help, anyway. Get the drinks bar set up.”

“Non-alcoholic.”

“Non-alcoholic, of course. You’ll have never seen so much Snapple in your life, I promise you.”

James pats Dundy’s leg in a gesture of gratitude. He does not have the exact words to say _Thank you for understanding that I need to get over my stupid crush while simultaneously making sure that this party is suited for his attendance,_ so it suffices, and Dundy knocks his knee against James’ to say _What are friends for?_

And, really, what are they for, if not for this?

Morning comes, with still no sign of the order from E & C. No matter; there is still time for it to arrive, James tells himself with increasing desperation as he sets up his karaoke playlist for the Carnivale. In front of him lies his laptop, humming away furiously on the bed where it ought not to be, and the list he had tacked up on the whiteboard beside the poster, asking people to suggest songs for the party. He has to look up _Two Trucks_ on Spotify to see what that is all about, frowns, and then crosses it out on the list in thick black sharpie. Then he crosses it out again on the line below it in slightly different handwriting. Thankfully, the more tasteful choices far outnumber the vulgar. There is hope yet for the night.

Dundy arrives back from his drinks run with two canvas shopping bags laden with all manner of beverage. He deposits them carefully in a clinking of glass on the coffee table, and then pulls out each bottle as if putting on a fashion show.

“This is, apparently, cream soda,” he announces, holding up a bottle of electric blue soda so that James can see it. There is a polar bear on the label. Dundy reads the ingredients, asks, “James, would you happen to know if blue dye should being one of the first five ingredients is a good sign or a bad one?” and sets it on the table, label facing outward. James hums, not looking up from his list.

“Hmm,” Dundy echoes him. “You’re starting to sound like Crozier.”

“I hope not,” says James. “He wears the accent better than I ever could. Do you think he put a song on the list?”

Dundy abandons his bags of bottles and comes over to the bed, perching on the edge of it and peering down at the list. He has to squint, without the reading glasses he swears half the time that he does not need and wears the rest of the time to give himself an air of sophistication. “Nope,” he declares a moment later, grabbing James’ marker and writing _Waterloo- ABBA_ on the next available line.

At last, James receives a notification that a package has arrived for him, just as he and Dundy are leaving to go to the office. James runs back inside, grabs the box, and places it in the trunk alongside several carefully-cushioned wooden crates (for the aesthetic-- there was no cardboard on 19th century naval vessels, of course) of drinks. A not-insignificant weight has been lifted from James’ shoulders with the arrival of the decorations. He and Dundy sing along to the karaoke playlist on the way, just to test drive it.

There is still an hour and a half to go before people should start showing up for the party, and two hours before it really ought to kick off, which gives James ample time to prepare the place to his exact specifications. He will clear the counter in the break room for the array of drinks Dundy has purchased, set up the ancient folding table adjacently for the food, which Edward is to pick up in forty-five minutes exactly or so. He will most likely arrive with Thomas (Jopson), who James may be able to enlist to help with the decorations. As Dundy wheels the crates of drinks into the break room on a borrowed hand truck, James brings the package to a nearby desk and pries it open.

* * *

“Well, look who decided to show his face.”

Francis slams the hatch. When he turns, there is Tom (Blanky), grinning at him as he approaches from a few spaces away. “If memory serves, you threatened to drag me here yourself if I didn’t show up,” he reminds him, shifting his burden in his arms. Tom inclines his chin towards it, raising his eyebrows in question.

“Hostess gift, Francis?”

“Food.” The platter is not enough to feed the whole lot of them, but he is banking on some of the catered food being salvageable. In his experience at events hosted by Sir John-- he went to his fair share of them, back when he and Sophia had been an item-- it is often of poor quality, and only about as plentiful as it requires for each attendee to have a single serving and Sir John to have a second. If Francis’ veal lasagna cannot make up for the taste, it may at least bolster their provisions. At any rate, a serving platter covered in foil is always a comforting sight. Francis sighs; condensation forms on the aluminum. “I don’t have high hopes for the food tonight,” he admits. “I thought this might be welcome.”

Tom peeks under the foil and gives it a sniff. “You’re probably right,” he agrees as lasagna fumes waft out into the parking lot. Francis tucks the foil back, and, together, they proceed to where the party is.

They find Fitzjames, Le Vesconte, Gore, and Hodgson all standing around a cardboard box, the top of it splayed open like a flower, staring into it with varying degrees of dismay.

“Well,” says Tom, joining the semicircle. “What are we doing, reading our fates?”

James makes a wounded noise, as if he is dying slowly.

“The decorations arrived,” Hodgson answers mournfully, his eyes enormous and haunted. Francis curses, sets the platter down on someone’s desk, and comes to look. When he does, he finds himself looking into a box containing one spool of twine and a package of plastic forks.

“I assume these aren’t the decorations you ordered,” he says to James, who nods his head incrementally. Francis sighs and puts his hand on James’ shoulder, rubbing it briefly. “We’ll think of a way,” he promises him, for no reason other than that he believes they will. The look on James’ face is one he has come to want off of it as quickly as possible, and if that requires him to create banners out of printer paper, then that is what he will have to do.

“Right,” Tom announces, emptying the box on the desk and ripping off the cardboard packaging from the spool. “This is what we’ll do.” After he does the same to the forks, dumping those out, as well, he begins trying them in the twine. Hodgson and Le Vesconte look nonplussed, but Gore has a perplexed smile on his face, and James’ is slowly lighting up in a way which suggests that he is just desperate enough to be grateful.

When Tom is finished with his string, he ties off the last fork and cuts the strand from the rest of the roll and hands it off to Hodgson. “Go put this up somewhere,” he tells him, and Hodgson goes to do so, happy to have definite direction in the middle of this uncertainty. Gore goes off to the nearest grocery store to find what he can find in terms of anything that can be repurposed into decorations. With Tom and Hodgson occupied and Gore absent, this leaves James, Francis, and Le Vesconte to set up the break room, connect James’ tablet to the projector, and make sure the two portable speakers James has brought also work. Francis purposely avoids eye contact with Le Vesconte, although he does feel the man’s eyes on him every once in a while, in the way someone might see it when light is shined into their closed eyes. It fuels his resolve to talk to James.

“When we both have a chance,” he tells him quietly, when Le Vesconte is out of earshot, and touches his arm, “I’d like to talk to you.”

Perplexingly, James nods and says, “Yes, I think that that would be a good idea.”

Before Francis has the chance to ask what James anticipates them talking about, Little arrives, bearing a stack of party platters so tall as to obscure his head. Jopson is beside him with a hand on his elbow, verbally guiding him through the door. He smiles in relief when he sees Francis and James.

“Sorry to interrupt,” he says, steering Little out of the way of the corner of a desk just before he can smack his hip on it. “Would you mind-?”

Francis and James are already taking plastic trays out of Little’s arms and bringing them to the break room before Jopson can ask the rest of his question. They set them out on the folding table, and next to them, Francis’ lasagna looks infinitely more appealing. 

Shortly after that, Gore comes back. “I found these,” he says, setting a shopping bag on the table and taking out several plastic-wrapped packages for James and Francis to see. Tablecloths, cheap and disposable, and in a color just the right shade of off-white to simulate the sails of a ship when tucked into the ceiling panels by one corner and taped to the desks by another. This serves both to protect the desks, as well as to turn the office quickly into something not otherworldly by a long shot, but at least interesting. James and Le Vesconte also tape one of the tablecloths to the wall and let it hang, creating a dedicated screen upon which to project the lyrics during karaoke. By the time everything is set up and looking as good as it can get when their only decorations are strings of forks and cheap tablecloths, the first trickles of people start to arrive.

* * *

John and his husband, Henry (Peglar), are the first to arrive, their hands joined and arms linked so that they are all but tied to each other’s sides. “John, Henry! So glad the two of you could make it,” James greets them, smiling widely.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Henry replies for the two of them, “especially if that means getting to hear this one sing.”

John looks appropriately bashful at that, which does not go unnoticed by Henry. “He’s modest about it, but he’s really got a lovely voice,” he insists, to which John gives a laugh out of amusement rather than self-consciousness and squeezes his hand.

“I don’t know what songs you’ve got, James,” he says, “but we have a duet in mind. I know this is no talent show, but, well.”

“Any song you can think of, I can find,” James promises the both of them. “That’s the power of the internet these days. Here, help yourself to refreshments in the break room.”

He guides them to where the food and drinks are, watches as Henry makes a show of choosing a soda to drink. Since he had spent the early part of the year ill enough for John to miss several weeks of work, James is glad to see him in such high spirits. To see the both of them smiling and happy and amusing one another with guessing which songs they might hear the others sing.

As more and more people arrive, James transitions from greeting to mingling, making sure everyone has a plate in one hand and a plastic cup of their non-alcoholic drink of choice in the other. Dundy is deep in conversation with George and Graham, the kind of conversation which involves a great deal of thigh-patting and arm-touching. James knows not to expect him home that evening. Away by the window, he can see Thomas (Jopson) and Edward, sharing from one plate, which Thomas holds and Edward occasionally feeds him from, as well as a single bottle of what looks to be rosewater lemonade shared between the two of them.

And there, by the screen, stand Thomas (Blanky) and Francis (the firm’s only Francis), both holding bottles of lemon-flavored sparkling water and plates of Francis’ lasagna. Swallowing the wave of the thing he does not want to call jealousy which wells up, James steps to a conspicuous place and makes a gesture like a conductor silencing an orchestra.

“Welcome, welcome, one and all!” he announces to the room at large. John (Bridgens) claps politely, George calls, “Hear, hear!” and Dundy whistles, all of which James greatly appreciates. “Thank you ever so much for joining me tonight, I’m so glad you all could make it. I’d like to give a special shoutout to the men who volunteered on very short notice to make tonight possible, so if you would please give a wave if you hear your name called...”

He clears his throat and motions sweepingly to each man as he lists them off: “In no particular order-- Dundy, for helping to set up and for procuring tonight’s refreshments-- you can thank him for that radioactive blue stuff; Graham, again, for helping to set up, and for salvaging our aesthetic at the eleventh hour; George, for helping to decorate, and for a near-constant stream of cocktail facts to keep us entertained while we worked; Thomas Blanky, for these ingenious string banners; and Edward, for picking up our food so that we may have a supper to sing for. I am forever in your debt, truly.”

He encourages a sincere round of applause for his helpers, Thomas Blanky raising his bottle to toast. Through the window, the last traces of pink are fast disappearing from the sky, leaving night behind. “Without further ado,” James declares as Dundy hits the lights, sending the karaoke screen into darkness, “thus commences Carnivale.”

It sounds grander than it has any right to be, being an office karaoke party where its organizer was scammed out of all the decorations and over which lies a thin pall of anxiety about the Franklin case, but at least that is something they can put aside until Monday. If nothing else, they get a free dinner out of this, as well as a chance to see their coworkers embarrass themselves publicly. The only downside to a karaoke party is the fact that being the first one up to sing is both nerve-wracking, unless one has absolutely nary a self-conscious bone in their body, and insurmountably tacky.

“Well, gents,” says Hodgson, predictably, setting aside his plate and cup and stepping forward, “guess someone has to kick this off. Maestro?”

“Ready, maestro,” James calls, rushing for his tablet and opening it up to the music library. As it turns out, George was the one who had put in a request for Billy Joel’s _Piano Man,_ and soon the Carnivale sounds like a piano as he sings his heart out for nearly five minutes straight. For all the ham he puts into his performance, his voice is not half bad, and as he finishes with a deep bow, James goes off to find Francis somewhere where he will not be called to the microphone.

“Francis,” he says quietly, with his hand on Francis’ shoulder. The man jumps, fumbling his fork. He curses.

“James,” he replies with a nod.

“Is now a good time for talking?”

“Now’s an excellent time.”

They both look towards James’ office first, then Francis’, both of which are disappointingly made of glass and provide exactly 0% of the privacy they would like for whatever conversation they think they will have. “Here,” James says at last, and tugs Francis by the elbow to the restroom. There, it is empty and quiet, far enough from the singing and the sounds of conversation that they can hear each other without having to shout over the music or lean in perilously close, and, as far as restrooms go, this one is kept impeccably clean. James would not eat off of the floor, certainly, but it could be much worse.

“You said you wanted to talk to me,” he prompts.

“You said you agreed, we ought to talk.”

“I did.” James blinks, exhales, and tries again. “Alright, well, I’ll just go first, then. Dundy says you seem to think he’s been cheating on me.”

Francis’ face pales. He purses his lips, and when he speaks again, his voice takes on a gentle quality that James would be ashamed but honest if he said he could listen to it for hours. “James,” he says, “I can only tell you what I saw. Yesterday, when you were out-”

“Working from home.”

“-working from home, I saw him at Irving’s desk. He looked to be flirting with him. I wouldn’t have said anything if I hadn’t seen him acting… overly familiar with Fairholme the day before.” Francis looks genuinely upset by this; of course, a married man ought to be troubled by the concept of someone’s partner cheating on them, if not for the fact that James and Dundy are not partners. Partners in crime, perhaps, or homosexual life partners in a non-romantic way, but certainly not an item such as Francis and Thomas (Blanky.)

The thought occurs to James that he ought to set the record straight.

“Dundy and I aren’t dating,” he says. Francis’ mouth snaps closed; the sound of teeth hitting teeth echoes on the tiles. “We- I mean, we’ve been friends for as long as it’s ever mattered. He’s my best and oldest friend, and I do love him, and he loves me, I suppose, but we don’t... we aren’t…”

“Dating.”

“Exactly. We could, don’t get me wrong, but we both prefer it as it is.”

They stand there in silence. Francis’ eyebrows are at their highest perch, wrinkling his forehead and pulling his eyes wide as he avoids James’ eyes and tries to look casual about it. James, on the other hand, finds himself unable to wrench his gaze away from Francis; Francis, who had been so concerned for the state of James’ heart that he had confronted Dundy about his supposed cheating. Francis, who is far too good and far too married.

Francis, who blurts, “Let me take you out for drinks sometime?”

* * *

James blinks.

“Coffee,” Francis corrects himself hurriedly. “Lunch, sometime, perhaps. If you have the time, and the interest. I…”

He trails off, and James blinks again. For a moment, he fears that James has stopped working, that some vital circuit has shorted out, until James says, “But you’re married.”

Well, that is certainly news to Francis. The closest he has ever been to married is what he had had with Sophia, and look how that turned out. Not that he faults her for it; he understands, and is glad for her that she can now live a happier life.

“Married?” he repeats, hoping he has heard James wrong, but James gives him an exasperated sigh, as though he cannot believe he has to explain this to him-- which Francis also understands, because nor can he believe James has to explain this to him-- and paces a full circle before he finds words again.

“Thomas Blanky?” James says, his tone going up at the end in the way it does when he is speaking to a complete idiot for whom he cannot even manage diplomacy. “Thomas Blanky, your husband? To whom you’re married?”

Francis cannot help it; he barks out a laugh that leaves the room ringing and James looking ready to storm out. “Thomas Blanky,” he tells him, “is married.”

“Christ, Francis, yes, I know that-”

“-to Esther Blanky.”

Now, it is James’ turn to shut his mouth, and he goes very red very quickly. Francis thinks he has never shut him up as fast as this. James puts both hands over his face and drags them down, pulling his cheeks so that the insides of his eyelids show.

“Oh god,” he groans. Once more, for good measure: “Oh, god,” and pushes his hands back up to his hairline, grabbing his own hair and clutching at it. “But you don’t-!” he says, and “He doesn’t-!” and “My god, of course you don’t wear a ring,” followed by more groaning at his own misunderstanding. Francis waits patiently for him. James emerges, finally, brows raised and cheeks cooled to a softer pink.

“Does your offer,” he tries, stops himself, and then tries again. “Does your offer still stand? For coffee, that is.”

“Expired a minute ago, while you were having an existential crisis,” Francis replies, checking his watch. He feels James swat him in the shoulder, no force behind it, more of a pat than anything else.

“Come to mine, then,” James offers. He seems to be mostly recovered by now. “Dundy won’t be home tonight.”

“How do you know he won’t be?” Francis asks, just as the door to the restroom bangs open. As if on cue, Le Vesconte stumbles in, one arm around Hodgson and the other around Gore. With the three of them floats in the sweet tenor of John (Morfin), whose mother was a West End actress back in her day, singing _Somewhere_ from West Side Story.

“Ah, there he is,” says Le Vesconte. “Won’t be home tonight.”

“Neither will I, for anyone wondering,” says Hodgson, unlatching himself from Le Vesconte’s throat as the door bangs open again. Poor thing had not even gotten a chance to close properly before Jopson and Little fall in, joined at the lips, and hit Gore’s back on their way.

“Mr. Crozier!” says Jopson when he catches sight of Francis over Le Vesconte’s shoulder, turning away from Little. “Several people have started complaining of sour stomachs, and the situation seems to be worsening by the second. I thought we might start to organize carpools so that no one has to drive themselves home if they’re feeling too ill.”

He eyes the three stalls. “We might want to vacate the restroom, too,” he adds.

“Oh, let them fend for themselves,” Le Vesconte scoffs with a wave of his hand, but then one of the interns rushes in and makes a beeline for the first stall, both hands clapped over his mouth, and everyone warms up to the idea very quickly.

* * *

Two hours later, after carpools are coordinated, everyone is either on their way home or at someone else’s, the leftover food-- besides Francis’ lasagna-- is thrown away after being deemed irredeemable, and the office is returned to looking its usual Monday morning brand of tidiness, James and Francis lounge on the couch in James and Dundy’s apartment. James had not gotten a chance to eat at the party, and Francis had only just gotten around to considering his plate of lasagna as more than a prop with which to gesture during conversation when James had pulled him into the restroom. Dinner for them is scrambled eggs with rice and salsa, and leftover bottled drinks from the party. James has chosen a cherry-flavored sparkling water, while Francis opted for licorice root beer.

“I think that could have gone better,” James admits. His sigh blows over the lip of his bottle and produces a flat note.

“Which part, the part where everyone got sick, or the part where five people decided to start necking in the restroom?”

“Starting with the decorations.” James stabs at his plate, skewers a blob of egg, which crumbles into perfectly soft bits as he lifts it. “I had gotten an email yesterday saying that the order was delayed. I should have recognized that as the omen it was.”

“You couldn’t have known.”

“Maybe, but I could have prepared better.”

Francis sets his plate and fork on the coffee table. He turns to face James, who mournfully spears at his food, and places a hand on his shoulder. Thinks better of it, and after a moment of hesitation, relocates it so that his thumb rest against his cheek, parallel to the deep line which stretches from cheekbone to jaw.

“There will be other parties,” he tells him. “Other Carnivales. If I know you at all, I know that you’ll not let one set of unfortunate coincidences discourage you for long.”

If he had known earlier that he would find himself in the apartment of James Fitzjames (and of Henry T. D. Le Vesconte, but that part is beside the point) reassuring him of his party-planning proficiency, he would have laughed himself out of his own office. Now, though, it feels like the only possible thing to do.

“And, to prove it,” Francis adds, “I promise to attend as many of them as I can.”

James’ hand stills. Slowly, he turns to Francis, a smile quirking his lips.

“I would like that very much,” he says.

How they get from there to kissing on the couch, neither of them would be able to recall if asked, but if they had to guess, they would suppose it was a gradual horizontal migration, culminating in James becoming impatient and grabbing Francis by the face. So engrossed are they in each other that neither of them notice their respective phones going off with messages from Thomas (Jopson) and John (Bridgens), telling them that John Franklin and John Barrow have agreed to settle. That will not matter until tomorrow morning, when they check their phones, and until Monday, when they actually have to begin the settlement process.

For now, Francis Crozier is in heaven.

**Author's Note:**

> here's [the playlist for this fic](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3tii1HLm5EXwOwkUyHbddA?si=C_F_HdrUTcSXu5RxglUrdw). try to guess who sings each song-- morfin, dundy, and blanky&crozier are givens, but i'd like to hear your takes on the others!  
> as always, come visit me on [tumblr](http://edward-little.tumblr.com).


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